A Week in the Life
by EndlessLabyrinth
Summary: The week before Roger died was filled with torrential emotions, good and bad conversations, and unpredictable revelations.
1. Monday

**Monday**

The morning was cold. God damn _cold_ like every morning in this god forsaken city.

Mark steeled himself at the sight of empty cupboards, willing not to get angry at the view. The no food. No heat. No money. No _nothing_. Because getting angry would not help either of them. It was pointless anger when energy was precious and non-renewable. There was just _nothing_ he could do. And he was all alone, and this was all his responsibility, and he was getting really sick of all this responsibility because he never asked for any of it, and he didn't know what he was doing, and he really god damned needed to know what he was doing because-

Roger coughed.

The sound was a siren call to Mark who immediately abandoned the barren kitchen and all but leaped to their loft's living room. Roger hadn't moved much this morning, going straight from his bedroom to the couch, accompanied by his warmest pants, oversized sweater, and the blanket Mark had draped over him the night before. The man still shivered like a leaf.

"Roger, you awake?" Mark tested the waters. Trying to ignore the incessant pounding of his heart in his chest.

Roger nodded in response, not bothering-or not having the energy-to open his eyes.

Mark ran his hands over his best friend's skinny, blanketed shoulder, "I'll get you some hot coffee." He said.

At that, Roger did open his eyes and tried to open his mouth to speak, but was interrupted by another violent coughing fit that quickly overtook him, wracking his body with tremors and spasms and stopping his even breath.

Marks throat closed up as he moved quickly to sit his friend up. He leaned Roger over to ease the coughing, like he had done so many times before. Rogers skin was so hot. Too hot. And sweat had all but tattooed itself to his face. He had been sick the entire week. Struck by a sudden winter cold that too quickly turned into a violent fever. Now, Mark was starting to worry about potential phenomena. Rogers coughs were wet. Harsh. All-consuming.

They had been doing everything _right_. Mark had a steady income miraculously, and Roger still had some savings from the singles he'd recently released. They could afford their last batch AZT. That had been the last of their spending money, but Roger still had pills left and was taking them every day. They were supposed to be helping him. But instead all Mark could see was a failing immune system cheated out early in the person be cared most about in this world because of one mistake. He saw a failing immune system that medicine was not helping.

Mark tried to hide the shaking in his voice. "It's okay. It's okay. Let it out. Breath."

Roger gasped for breath. "Fuck off, Cohen," he said with as much of his witty sarcasm he could muster. _Fuck off Cohen with your perfect, jewish lungs_. He remembered Roger quipping earlier that week. They'd both shared a laugh.

 _The last laugh they'd had, actually_ , Mark thought.

Mark pushed the thought away and slapped a half smile on his face, "So forward. At least buy me dinner first."

Roger returned the sentiment with a middle finger in Marks face, an action that did startle breathy laugh from Mark. Rogers breathing evened out and, with Mark trailing soothing circles across his back, the man's coughing fit eased.

Mark gently lay him back down on the couch, but didn't leave his side, not wanting to take his hand away from his friend's shoulder, not wanting to be too far away, not wanting his breaths out of earshot.

"How are you feeling?" Mark asked.

Roger didn't answer right away. The man still shivered in his blankets and let his eyes fall closed once more. He looked so tired. The bags under his eyes had no place on his young face. And the wrinkles embedded all across his face betrayed the years of abuse and stress he'd put his body through. His face was so pale, and his body so weak. He hadn't been able to keep ant sort of food down all week. Liquids were the best bet, but at this rate, Roger would inadvertently starve himself before his fever could take him. The sight broke Marks heart.

 _But we've been through this before_ , Mark reminded himself... Even if it had never really gotten this bad before... they would make it through this. They always had. This was just a harsher winter fever that Roger dealt with every year. And Roger would be fine like always.

Rogers voice finally broke through. And it was softer and weaker then Mark had ever heard it. "I'm so tired, Mark."

Marks throat just kept threatening to close up. God damned organ. He pushed down the cotton ball in his throat. "I can try and help with that. I think we still have some coffee beans left over. I can heat up some water."

Roger looked like he wanted to say no, his face turned up in nausea at the thought. But they both knew he needed nourishment. And coffee was the best they had. He nodded slowly, and tried to bury himself once more in his covers.

Mark stood and quickly made his way back to the kitchen, task at hand. He filled their coffee pot with water and set it to heat up. He busied himself by scavenging the cupboards with renewed determination. There had to be some coffee in here somewhere. What if he tried the pantry next door. If he told the neighbors their predicament, they would surely lend him a cup? And if he needed to, he could go to the store and pick some up. He would just be leaving Roger alone which was never a good idea, but-

"Mark?"

Mark zipped his head around and was staring at a ghost. Roger stood near the couch, his blanket forgotten, looking like he'd crawled out of a grave. Everything next happened in slow motion. His face turned sickly pale and he took one step before his eyes rolled up behind his head and his body collapsed hard against the rugged, wooden floors.

"Roger!"

Mark sped from the kitchen back to the living room, slamming his knees on the hard floor bending quick to Rogers side.

"Roger! _Roger_!" Mark gripped his friend's shoulders and turned him around on his back. He shook his friend hard, harder then he probably should have, but his racing heart had no concept of ration in that moment. The only thing that mattered was the closed eyes of his friend and the fact that Mark needed those eyes open now. Roger moaned on the ground, but did not open his eyes or make any move to get up or show that he was okay.

Mark raced to the phone and pounded in the three numbers he'd been dreading having to do for five years.

After one ring the line was answered, "911 what is your emergency?"

"I left the coffee pot on," Mark realized.

"What?" Collins asked.

"The coffee pot. I left it on before we left. I forgot to turn it off. I was getting Roger some coffee."

Mark didn't miss the look of terrible pity of Collins' sad face. "I'm sure it'll turn off on its own. Those things are on a timer," he said.

"Yeah."

Mark and Collins sat in two uncomfortable waiting room chairs at the emergency room of New York Methodist Hospital. The paramedics had let Mark ride in the ambulance with Roger, but once they'd gotten to the operating doors, they made him stay behind.

 _"What are you doing with him!" Mark had screamed, fending off a poor nurse trying to restrain him from prowling through the operating room doors_

 _"He's coughing up fluids. They need to clear out his lungs." The nurse had said._

The memory was bright and painful, despite the numbness engulfing Mark. Collins had showed up a half hour later, having been notified as the second next-of-kin in Rogers file. The first next-of-kin was already there.

Neither man spoke much. There wasn't much to say. But when Mark looked over at Collins, he saw tears streaming quietly down his face. Mark hated him for it.

Suddenly, a woman with a clipboard approached them. "Mark Cohen?" She asked, "here with Roger Davis?"

Mark sat up straighter, "yeah that's me. How is he?"

"Im sorry," she started, "he's still in surgery. The doctors are working on him best they can to bring down his fever and get his breathing under control. As of right now, they're diagnosing him with typical, acute phenomena, but they have to take extra precautions due to his... condition." She said as kindly as she could.

Mark mentally counted to ten and ignored the obvious prejudice. "Do you know when they'll be done?"

Her eyes were genuinely sympathetic. "I'm sorry, I don't."

Mark just slumped back into his chair, feeling Collins' supporting hand on his shoulder and taking in the news in stride.

But the woman hadn't left after delivering her message. "Mr. Cohen, I'm so sorry to have to bring this up, but we need to speak on the matter of insurance."

Marks heart fell to his stomach. "He doesn't have insurance. He... he's not insured."

The woman just nodded, not as surprised at the news as she should have been. "Well in that case, I'll need you to fill out some paperwork if you can."

She handed Mark some of the papers and the clipboard and pen. She offered the pair one last, pitying smile and left them with the knowledge that they could drop off the papers at the desk whenever they finished. Mark just held the clipboard in his hands numbly. After a while, Collins slipped his hand in and took the papers from him. Mark held his gaze straight in front of him. For a while, all that could be heard was the scratching of a pen.

A sudden thought struck Mark. "Maureen and Joanne. I forgot about them. But Roger probably wouldn't want them to fuss."

"I called them. They're about another hour out." Collins replied.

Mark wanted to tell Collins that was ridiculous. There was hardly a need for them to drive all the way to the hospital when they lived outside the city. Roger was going to be fine. But Collins kept scratching at the papers so Mark dropped the comment. But now Mark remembered his boiling coffee pot. And the simple thought that Roger needed some coffee.

"Do you think they'll give him some coffee when he wakes up? Can people with pneumonia drink coffee?" Mark asked.

"I don't know. They'll probably start him on water first."

"Collins, why are you crying?"

The older man simply scrunched his face in sorrow. "Oh Mark..."

"Don't, Collins. Don't. Don't say anything. He's going to be fine. You don't need to be fucking crying right now because he's going to be fine!"

Collins didn't meet his eyes, but didn't stop the stream riding down his face. He looked so sad. Like the wounded soul he embodied when Angel died... and when Mimi died. His entire face drooped and expressed such absolute sorrow, it was like all the happiness had been sucked from the world. Because what else could crumble a man so capable of life and love and happiness?

Mark stood up suddenly, unable to sit in the waiting room a moment longer. He heard a small "Mark, wait!" behind him, but he ignored it. Mark stormed out of the room and wandered the halls aimlessly until he found himself in what looked like a storage hallway with surprisingly no people. Perfect.

He found a tile square near the wall and slid down to the floor. He pulled his knees to his chest and buried his head in them. It was so much easier to do _this_. To find some stupid corner and curl up and focus on the nails digging hard into his arms instead of his world torrenting around him like a fucking hurricane. Mark almost felt detachedly embarrassed at his behavior, but nothing could have prepared him for the way his body decided to react. Everything was just so… unreal. And his own body was fighting itself in a way he had never experienced before. His brain didn't feel like venturing into the possibilities his immediate future was going to have, but his body had different motives.

Mark's chest felt too heavy and the prickling around his eyes suddenly became too overwhelming to control. Tears spilled out of them without his approval, and his throat soon followed. Unrelenting, breathy sobs escaped him, shaking his small frame and consuming him from the inside out. He hugged his knees closer shrinking as far away from reality as he could, but still failing. So, he just sobbed harder. And dug his nails in deeper.

Through his haze of pain, he felt a strong, gentle hand on his shoulder. He peeked out of his cocoon for just enough time to recognize Collins before gripping his coat collar and pulling the man into an awkward embrace he was never going to let go of. Mark sobbed into Collins' coat as the older man rubbed a soothing hand through Mark's hair.

" _Shhh shh_ , Mark. Breath." He said, with a chilling similarity to the mantra Mark had given Roger just hours earlier. "Roger's getting taken care of. He's in the hospital getting the help he needs. He's around help."

"He just collapsed, Collins!" Mark surprised himself. Apparently, that's where his mind was taking him. "He just fell down and stopped moving. And I let it happen."

"Shh, shh. You did everything you could."

"He can't die." A fear gripped Mark like he had never experienced before. His blood ran cold and his stomach fell painfully in his chest. He felt like he couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. "He can't die. He can't leave yet."

To that, Collins had nothing to say, he just held Mark tighter.

"He can't leave." Mark continued. "He's my best friend. I love him. He can't leave."

Two, long hours later found Mark, Collins, Maureen, and Joanne all sitting in the same emergency room waiting chairs looking like a strange coupling of the Breakfast Club. When they first arrived, Maureen had stormed into the waiting room with fresh tears in her red eyes and slammed Mark into a fierce hug.

 _"He's gonna be okay, baby. He's gonna be okay," she had sobbed into his neck._

 _Mark had patted her shoulder._

Now, they sat. Waiting. Waiting for the answer they all knew wasn't going to be good.

Horrid memories of fourteen months ago flood Mark's memory. Just three weeks after they'd gotten Mimi back from the dead, the disease decided to take her again. Just as things has taken a marginal step forward, just as Roger and Mimi started to entertain the idea of starting a fresh life again, Mimi's fever returned in full force, and not two days later she was in the hospital saying her last goodbyes.

It had been just as painful as Angel's death, multiplied by two at the still open wounds she had left behind. Mark had feared Mimi's death would spiral Roger into a second wave of smack-fueled depression like April's had. But Mimi had apparently told Roger something right before she died.

Mark had asked, but Roger never said exactly what her words were. But whatever her magic had been, she helped inspire Roger to return to his music, start writing again, publish his song for her, and live a more exuberant life then he had before he ever tried smack. Mark had felt embarrassingly jealous of the fact that Mimi could inspire such change in Roger where he could not. But then Roger would come to him, his eyes so lit up in unabashed excitement, wanting to show Mark his drafts, or play him a new chord on his guitar. And Mark would smile, and everything would be okay. These last months had been the happiest and hardest Mark had ever experienced. Everything had been fine until last week. And today.

 _No day but today_ , Mark thought bitterly.

"Party for Roger Davis?" a woman's voice rang out.

Four heads snapped to attention. Maureen jumped out of her chair and called a nurse and scrub-clad doctor towards them. The doctor looked haggard, and the bags under her eyes were probably not just from Roger's case, judging by the full waiting room.

"You're all here for Roger Davis?" The doctor asked once she'd approached the group.

"Yeah, I'm Mark Cohen, his listed next of kin."

She nodded. "Roger is stable."

The air suddenly became easier to breathe. Marks chest felt airier, and he didn't bother to suppress the smile that sprung on his face.

"Roger is stable," she continued, "but he is still considered to be in critical condition."

And just as quick, the chill returned.

"What?" Mark heard Maureen say.

"Please sit-down ma'am," the doctor said gently, "Roger came in with a severe case of pneumonia and a high fever. I won't get into too much medical jargon, but because of his AIDS, his immune system was not able to fight off the infection."

 _I know that_ , Mark wanted to spit at her. He clenched his fists and bit his tongue.

The doctor went on. "This is something that we could usually treat with a case of antibiotics and a couple weeks of rest. But in Roger's case, the antibiotics will most likely be ineffective since his body has virtually no foundation for them to work on. We've started him anyways on a pretty severe dose of antibiotics and we're monitoring his progress. But I want to warn you all, this might not turn out in our favor. He's stable right now, however."

She finished her speech. It felt calculated. Rehearsed. Like this was routine for her.

Mark felt numb. He heard Collins ask, "can we see him?"

The doctor nodded. "He's awake. We normally would recommend limiting guests to two at most. But seeing as you're all here..."

 _And seeing as you don't think Roger will last the week_ , Mark thought.

The doctor lead them through a maze of identical patient rooms that Mark immediately got lost in. He thought he heard Collins' ask something about the medical coverage involved, and all he heard back was, "It's all taken care of." Which made Mark marginally guilty for the harsh thoughts at the doctor, but his guilt was fleeting and quickly flew from his scope as she stopped them in front of a wide patient door and opened it.

Marks heart beat obnoxiously hard in his chest, but he kept his face neutral as he stepped into Rogers small room. But no amount of mental prep could have prepared him for the image he was struck with.

Roger, looking skinnier and paler then Mark had ever seen him, lay sleeping on his hospital bed, hair frizzy from sweat and chills, and heavy bags draping under his eyes. Most startling of all was the breathing mask firmly fastened to his face. It covered more than half of his entire face, and made him look more artificial and lifeless then he ever did during his withdrawal. A steady heart monitor beeped rhythmically in the background and drown out his tiny breaths that fogged up his mask.

Mark felt his knees go weak and could not suppress a whimpered gasp that escaped.

Maureen followed suit with a loud gasp and sound of distress and she made her way to Roger's side in an instance. Her face contorted into a look of genuine pain that dimly surprised Mark. The two had never been outwardly close, but this was more the Maureen's typical over-dramatics. She was quickly joined by Joanne and Collins. All four people that Mark cared about most were in his line of sight for the worst possible reasons. Joanne looked defeated and small. Collins looked like he was going to fall apart at any moment, his face barely containing the pain that wanted to no doubt burst out. All that in one image. Mark almost thought it could be objectively poetic.

But this wasn't a movie, this was his real life staring at him. And the sight was just so _wrong_. This shouldn't be happening. Mark could think of nothing but the fact that this shouldn't be happening to him again and how he didn't know how he was going to do this. Too many thoughts. Too many feelings all at once. He wasn't ready. How was _anyone_ supposed to be ready?

It didn't feel real.

The doctor began speaking again. "Roger should be waking up soon. The surgeons put him under a light anesthetic to ease the draining in his lungs, and it should be wearing off soon. You're all welcome to stay as long as you want."

Mark finally found his voice. It was stronger than he thought it would be. "Why are you giving us such special treatment?" He asked.

The doctor looked at him like he should know the answer. Mark did. But he wanted her to say it out loud. Dared her to.

"We just want everyone to be comfortable," she settled on saying. She quietly excused herself and closed the door behind her.

The group stood in silence, Mark looking pointedly anywhere but at the figure of his best friend lying in the bed. Maureen pulled a chair close to Rogers bed and started stroking bits of his hair. A tiny flash of anger flew in Mark at the sight, because how dare she do something so intimate to Roger when Mark was way closer to him. But the feeling left as soon as it came. Joanne sat next to Maureen and slid her hands around Maureen's stomach to rest her head on her girlfriend's shoulder. Collins drew a chair close as well, and sat forward, elbows on knees and hands to lips, looking at Roger with a unwavering intensity. It was a long moment before Mark joined their sigil, but eventually he absorbed the silent camaraderie and tried to draw the strength he knew he would need to make it through the night.


	2. Wednesday

**Wednesday**

Two days had passed and Roger still hadn't gotten any better. And of course, the day Mark decided to boycott hospitals was the day Roger decided to be an ass.

Mark heard the phone ring at about 3:30.

BEEP. _Speeeeeeeak_.

"Mark!" Maureen's shrill, electronic voice made Mark wince. "I know you're there. And I don't care if you pick up the phone or not because you're going to listen to me. You need to get your ass to the hospital and sort out your asshole roommate right now."— _Wow. Roger had been demoted to 'roommate'._ —"AIDS or no AIDS that does not give him the right to be disrespectful- cruel- snobbish- moody- when everyone around him is just trying to help and- pookie, no! Give me the phone. I'm not done-!"

A half hour later the phone rang again.

BEEP. _Speeeeeeeak_.

"Mark, its Joanne. Don't worry about Maureen, we're back home and she's in a bubble bath. She tried to bring Roger some cookies to cheer him up, and he just sort of threw them back at her. He's been feeling nauseous, you probably know. And the stress is just getting to both of them. But it's all okay. I hope you're doing alright. Call if you need anything. We're here for you too, not just Roger."

Mark lay sedentary on the couch like he had been since he woke up that morning. His limbs felt like lead, and his chest pressed down on him like an anvil. He could not make his body. His notebook laid on his stomach. He had amused himself earlier, assuming his brain could write in the foggy state it seemed to reside in. His eyes gazed steadfast upwards at the ceiling, looking at nothing. Trying to feel nothing.

But that was hard when all your friends kept dying.

Mark tried to rationalize death. No small feat. And part of the reason he hadn't left the couch all day. Because he was most defiantly _not_ trying to avoid Roger. And that damned hospital room. It was just really stuffy in there.

And surrounded by death.

But death was a natural process; everyone died eventually. It was the only thing known in life beyond taxes, and Mark knew how to avoid taxes. But what was the purpose of death? Or life, for that matter? What was the point of being born on this rock and going through motions for a couple decades and then leaving? What was the point to meeting other people, and building relationships and making memories and preserving experiences when death was just going to come in and take all of that away. Nothing follows you in death, and no one can defy it. So why did humans even bother doing anything? It was just going to get ripped away anyways.

Why did humans have to _feel_?

Mark blinked hard and was surprised to find tears streaking down his cheeks.

He knew his thoughts were spinning in dangerous circles that he would be caught in forever if he let himself. But at this moment, it was easier to be mad at the pointlessness of the world then to move off the couch, so in his thoughts he would stay.

He would visit Roger tomorrow.


End file.
